


and so is jean

by perbe



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perbe/pseuds/perbe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You said we’d never know. You meant we’d never know if that idiot Eren died, right? Or Mikasa? We’d just go on with our lives and no one would ever tell us if something happened."</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so is jean

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I love this pairing because I feel like even though Jean does act like a dick to impress Mikasa, he would definitely know not to hit Marco in the head with a pillow or like, do any of the things friends do when you’re climbing up a rickety wood ladder. Given that I only know one or two people who know me to that extent—you know, to not mess around with me when I’m experiencing an existential crisis)—I really appreciate their broship. Or alternatively, Jean could mess around with Marco and get away with it, which makes me super sad because we all know how this blossoming gayness between them turned out.
> 
> I've always wondered if Jean and Marco ever had doubts about going into the Military Police, especially as Jean decided to join the Survey Corps in honor of Marco. So I can totally imagine them having this conversation.
> 
> The song above the title is "Weekend Wars" by MGMT, which is a band I adore. It doesn't necessary make for good listening music, especially given the mood of this fic, but I do love these lyrics, so. In case anyone wants actual music to accompany their reading, though, do check out "Nothing Has To Happen" by Hungry Ghosts.

_When I open up my mouth,_  
 _There's a reason I don't win,_  
 _I don't know how to begin_

/

**.and so is jean**

Jean is leaning against the wall in that sloppy way of his, one leg half drawn up and the other draped across the top bunk. His arms press hard into the wall, fingers dig into the mattress. Probably his eyes are narrowed and the stillness of the air is the only thing keeping him from sighing. Marco knows this because he is awake, too, and the sound of the cabin sleeping is not so near as Jean who is a bunk away.

(Actually, that’s a lie—Marco knows because Jean _snores_.)

He draws the covers over his head and shivers. Is it still winter? If it is, it’s not winter as he used to know it with snow soft as night. When the sun glinting off snow-laced wind drew forth a feeling of reverence the walls never inspired. When sunlight wasn’t mathematical equations to be mastered, shadows were not refuge, and frost crawling up maneuver gear wasn’t as close as he has ever come to death. Once, his heart beat normally when he let his arms dangle by his sides and felt the absence of the gas containers. Marco opens his eyes and tries not to imagine titans stirring outside the window. Like his dreams aren’t bad enough already; behind his eyelids are aftershocks of what could be.

Slow exhalation because it’s harder to hear. Calms nerves. There was something else, but Marco finds his memory of those survival lessons occasionally goes in bits and pieces when he thinks too hard about it—his own survival mechanism, for what he does remember turns against him in factual nightmares. Titan blood is scorching-hot. Anywhere from a five meter class to the Colossal Titan. All it would take is thin wire snagging on a stray limb. It could happen next month, week, tomorrow. It’s so dark opening his eyes makes no difference; either way, his nightmares are there. He is _there_.

And so is Jean.

Relief comes in the action of sinking back into his pillow. Only then does he realize he’s been straining against thin air all this time. The cabin has light enough by which to see the dim shape of his hand. Marco presses it to his neck self-consciously.

(Which Marco supposes isn’t very rational since Jean is only one person, but he does make a difference.)

“Hey,” is a muffled, uncertain sound that tastes like a mouthful of cotton. Marco pushes his blankets to the side, wincing. “Jean?”

The silence stretches so long he thinks maybe Jean’s sleeping quietly, for once. Then, softly, “Marco?” Jean sounds tired, drawn, but then again, they all do. There is just a very Jean-like quality about this brand of tiredness that makes Marco certain he could recognize this voice anywhere. Probably this is all very stupid because this sort of thinking makes him want to strap himself into his maneuver gear and tell Jean it’s okay to sleep sometimes because he is certain they are both ranked high enough among the trainees to make it into the Military Police. But Marco knows better because they are both awake, and Jean, being Jean, has never wanted anyone to assure him of anything anyway.

“You there, Marco?” Jean whispers. 

Marco is startled into sitting upright and promptly slams his forehead against a bedpost. He stifles a groan. Right. He needs to not space out like that.

“Yeah, sorry,” says Marco, “uh,” says Marco, and then Marco falls silent. He’s not sure what he wanted to say in the first place. That the unseasonable warmth is what started it, these nightmares about titans erupting from the ground. That it’s less than doubt yet more than discomfort and he hopes-thinks-knows Jean understands. Or maybe not.

“Come up here,” says Jean.

Marco pushes his hair from his sweat-plastered forehead and obeys, allowing the familiarity of the bunk beds to guide him up the ladder. Soundlessly. They all move soundlessly to counteract their stubborn hearts knocking against their chests. As he leans into the wall so that his and Jean’s knees are barely touching, Marco thinks he needs the reminder; perhaps the closer they are, the more aware he is of the mute truth lingering after each promise. Sometimes he even catches the full-blown members of the Garrison at it.

Probably it started with Eren, this mantra that at any moment the Walls could be breached. It was so easy to laugh off at first. It’s not that it wasn’t, isn’t, true. Just that becoming a trainee in no way corroded the admiration Marco has of the soldiers. He doesn’t want to join them. He watches them go by in bloodied rags and some not at all, and he is never able to meet their eyes. Especially now that they’ve a week to go before graduation. Before what’s after is no longer an inappropriate joke. Marco watches the soldiers go and wonder how they do it, because as good as his scores are, there is no way to measure this quality he’s missing, this quality that Eren has that’s ever so contagious, that passes through the cabin like some flu.

Well, Marco certainly feels sick.

“You’re doing it again,” Jean tells him. There is the pressure of a hand against his back. Maybe checking his breathing rate. “You alright?”

Marco takes a look at the dust made visible in the beams of moonlight as if he can find his answer there. He receives no guidance and ends up mumbling something in response. Then he clears his throat and nods.

He swears he can hear Jean quirk an eyebrow. “Why’re you awake then?”

“Why’re you?” he retorts.

“Too hot,” Jean tells him. The hand at his back slips away and tucks itself into a fold of the sheets and yanks impatiently, as if to prove the truth behind those words. Briefly, he wonders if Jean can sense his skepticism, too, because there’s a sigh and then a silence so long he can’t possibly mistake the ensuing words as being about the heat of the cabin. “I hate it.”

“Hate what?”

A cloud passes over the moon, then. Marco looks at Jean, pressing his neck against the coolness of the wall in the process. He sees nothing but an unreadable shadowy outline. What could be Jean’s hands are pressed against his forehead, lifting his fringe from his eyes. I hate it. It’s said so dismissively, so casually, and Marco is starting to think he should have dealt with the nightmares instead of this—what is this? He’s beginning to see Jean, who is currently squinting at nothing in particular, and he either can’t look away or doesn’t want to. Which worries him because enigmatically-brusque-Jean worries him. And sooner or later he will elaborate and it’s not that Marco doesn’t get it. Only he’d rather pretend to take thing at face value sometimes. This inability to leave anything alone is what drew Marco to him and it’s what locks him in place beside Jean on the top bunk. He is starting to realize how it can be really, really bothersome.

The heat of Jean’s leg seeps through the fabric of his pajamas, through the covers. This warmth belongs to that of the hazy variety, the lazy variety, and Marco says they should open the window without expecting a response. Seconds trickle into minutes in the wake of silence. He draws one knee to his chin and waits, and waits.

“Maybe everything. Maybe I hate everything. I don’t know,” is phrased like a question. Some form of a cough follows. “I hate feeling like I’m doing something wrong. I just, yeah. Can you give me a moment?” Finally, Jean speaks—first slow and uncertain and then too quickly, as if to make up for all the halts in his speech, for the sighs interspersed between his disorganized thoughts.

Marco gives Jean several moments in which he could reassure him, could drape his arm across Jean’s shoulders, but doesn’t.

Instead, he documents the spaces between Jean’s fingers through which he peers out, now proud, now lost. At the end of it all, Jean’s hands have slipped from his eyes to cover his nose and mouth. Eventually, they stray to the straw mattress and press down, hard. Jean’s gaze remains trained on some unfathomable thing. But the moonlight is back, illuminating the dust in the air, stripping away the worry lines on Jean’s forehead. He looks younger, when he turns towards Marco. The movement throws him almost completely into shadow. An unfamiliar grin plays about his lips. Rueful. That’s the word.

“I never had a problem with all of this. The trainee system. You sign yourself up and you get better meals and you don’t have to wait in line for rations. You do well enough and you can get into the Military Police. Maybe you could get enough money to start a family, and you’d live comfortably. It’s all just a process to get far away from this place, isn’t it?” Jean asks.

It takes Marco a while to realize Jean actually expects an answer. He opens his mouth to find something has happened to his voice and settles for a quick nod. Is this the answer Jean is looking for?

Jean groans, frustrated, perhaps chocking on the words he can’t quite bring himself to say. Not yet. His hands curl into fists that beat into the mattress. Marco manages to convince himself he takes Jean’s hands into his own so they don’t wake up the entire cabin. Regardless, he doesn’t let go. He thinks he’d like that, he’d like knowing they’re both safe within the walls, as selfish as it is. Marco thinks he would like to know they’ll have enough to eat for the rest of their lives. That they are statistically so very likely to live out the rest of their days in peace. That he won’t have to wake up one day and wonder where the past went, where the future went, where everything went and get up anyway because he is among the Survey Corps and he can’t afford to not care. Without realizing it, his grip slackens. Jean takes it as a sign to pull away. They both know this is how it will be. You choose the easy way out because it looks easy, but it is the width of ten people and the rest are left to tread elsewhere.

“I was thinking about that, too,” Marco admits. _I was trying to justify it, too_. “It’s not that they’re being forced to join the Survey Corps or anything. But the Garrison has its risks. We’d never know.”

A laugh of harsh relief from Jean. Marco understands because talking about it hasn’t done much, but he thinks Jean can get him through the guilt and if happiness has to be a bittersweet thing, then he will learn to put up with it. They’re not particularly moral, anyway, which is why more than ever now, Marco knows Jean would be a great leader.

 _Are we cowards_?

“It’s fine, probably, to just go. Not fully fine, but no one wants to die,” Marco says to both himself and to Jean. “We know what we’re choosing.”

Another laugh: still harsh, but less so. Marco flushes. He has to learn how to stop these stupid responses for he is sure he’s making perfect sense. Or is Jean just messing with him? And there’s Jean, messing up his hair so he goes with the latter.

What a—

“What a what?”

Oh, is he talking aloud? Marco frowns and shoves the nearest pillow at Jean’s face. It serves him right.

“Hey! Did you just—” As predicted, Jean responds in kind and they are at the brink of a pillow fight until Marco catches sight of Armin pulling his covers over his head and remembers they aren’t the only people in the world. Immediately, he feels silly; he’s holding a pillow above Jean’s head, and his gut aches from laughter. Soon enough, the laugher fades and they stare at each other, their breath coming in heavy gasps.

“Sorry,” mutters Jean, clearly not meaning it.

Marco ends up flushing some more and resumes leaning against his spot against the wall. When Jean slumps back, their legs get tangled in the sheets and he can’t be bothered to extricate himself.

"Sure," he says, only slightly sarcastic.

“But do you really think so?”

“Think what?”

Marco isn’t sure if he will ever be capable of thinking again, at least until the blood drains from his ears. He rubs them, wincing. He can practically feel Jean staring intently at him.

“That it’s fine to join the Military Police,” says Jean. He hesitates before continuing. His voice is lower, as if trying to soften the blow. “You said we’d never know. You meant we’d never know if that idiot Eren died, right? Or Mikasa? We’d just go on with our lives and no one would ever tell us if something happened.”

 _Oh_.

“We would,” Marco admits.

“But it’s still fine.”

“Yeah. Because if it’s not us, then it’s someone else. And I wouldn’t be able to be part of the Garrison or the Survey Corps.” Suddenly, the covers don’t seem so warm. Yet Marco makes no move to pull them over his bare arms. “I’m not that confident or that brave. People like to ask me for help with fighting because Eren’s a terrible teacher and Mikasa and Annie are unapproachable, but it’s just because I’ve read the books. There isn’t much about me that’s special. I wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors out there.”

“People trust you,” Jean says, speech slurred with sleepiness.

“Should they?”

He shifts so he’s looking directly at Jean, who beams at him at him, crookedly, sleepily. His teeth aren’t perfectly even but Marco doesn’t mind. How strange.

“I trust you. I think they should trust you. You said it yourself, right? You’re a good judge of character. For what it’s worth, you’d make a good leader, too.” A yawn follows the statement. You’d think it was common knowledge from the way Jean said it.

And because it’s Jean, Marco believes it.

And at some point in the night Jean dozes off against the wall and Marco is left to stare at the silvery dust moving in and out of the moonbeams. It counts for more, Marco thinks. It counts for more because their promises don’t have the uncertain if we don’t die at the end. Whether or not it is a good thing, he can always find out later.


End file.
